As Blade moved to one side, Quaid, Ryder and Falcon came up the step, forming a straight line in front of the throne. Then, Mike came into view. My heart skipped audibly in my chest and melted all over the floor. Time slowed down, making everything spin as he took the last step toward me. He looked so…debonair, so strong, so—knightly. His sandy hair was brushed back, revealing most of his face—the scruffy, half-shaven look he usually sports was gone, giving way to the smooth, square shape of his jaw. He looked right at me, a bright smile lighting up the spirit behind those caramel eyes, but absent on his lips.
As I walked toward them, each knight dropped to one knee, his head lowered.
I’d been given a few options on the knighting ceremony, told that, traditionally, the knights were slapped hard with a glove or a hand to make them remember their oath. But I didn't like the idea of that, or the whole tapping the shoulder with a sword thing. We opted for a different method. Although, if Blade continued to look up and grin, I might consider slapping him.
“You have sworn your promise in blood.” I spoke loud so the whole Court would hear. “You are bound to the throne for eternity, to serve with your honour.” I touched Mike. “Your strength.” I touched Falcon. “Your blood, your soul.” I touched Ryder and Quaid. “And with your heart.” I touched Blade, and he smiled up at me. That slap tingled in my fingertips. He looked down instantly when I scowled at him.
“For eternity, you will serve your queen and your people with these gifts you possess. Today, you kneel before me as men.” I touched Mike on the shoulder again. “But arise as knights. Sir Michael Christopher White.” Mike stood as I moved on to Falcon, kinda nervous about coming into physical contact with him. My hand shook a little as I rested it to his shoulder again. “Sir Brett Wesley Falcon.” He stood too, and I touched Ryder’s shoulder. “Sir Zeidyn Gable Ryder. Sir Shamus Arian Quaid, and—” My hand warmed as it fell on Blade and the sudden jump to his heart made me smile. “Sir Thomas James Blade.”
He looked up at me, eyes wide, lips parted into a half smile.
“New life, new surname,” I whispered, but most of the court, being vampires, would have heard it anyway.
Blade rose to his feet as the others had done, and they all turned on their heels to face the crowd; their hands behind their backs, chins high. I straightened my spine to feel taller beside them.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Court, I present to you—” I held my hand out. “The Queen’s Guard.”
As the joyous applause unified the court with warmth again, they took off on their right foot and marched down the red carpet. I sat back down in my chair—throne—whatever they want to call it—it was a giant, overgrown cushion as far as I was concerned—and slumped lazily on the arm. But the knights broke apart suddenly and a few gasps came from the back of the room as the doors burst open again.
“Your majesty,” Orion called, appearing from within the crowd, hauling a man by the arm. “We have a messenger.”
He thrust the man forward, who fell to his knees, then stood up, straightening his clothes. “How dare you treat me in such a manner.”
I walked over and stood on the edge of the step above him. “You say you have a message.”
He dusted himself off again, melodramatically, and glared at Orion. “I do. It is from his majesty, King Drake.”
Everyone laughed.
“There is no Blood King,” Walter said. “Only a queen.”
The uniformed man scoffed. “I know of no queen. Now, read the message. I must be on my way.”
Walter took an envelope from the man. “Would you like to read it, Majesty, or shall I do the honours?”
I hadn’t noticed my knights stayed in the room until Mike stepped up from behind me and held his hand out. “I’ll read it.”
“Very well.” Walter passed him the letter.
He cleared his throat, holding it up. “Dearest Niece, it saddens me that we have come to war after centuries of peace. If you turn yourself over and hand back the manor and the throne, I will be merciful.” His voice slowed a little; he looked at the crowd then continued reading; “Your death will be quick, as will that of your people. You have until sunset, a month from today, to turn yourself over, or I will attack and forcefully take back what is rightfully mine. Sincerely, Uncle Drake.”
Everyone laughed, even me.
Mike refolded the letter and looked down at the messenger. “Tell your king he will have word in a fortnight.”
The messenger nodded and spun on his heel, then walked down the aisle, with Orion behind him. I looked around for Arthur then, to see what he thought, but he was gone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Walter said. “I announce this session of Court closed.” He banged his stick three times and the crowd turned away, quiet chatters of both joy and fear among them.
I spun around to look at my knights. “Is he serious? Drake?”
Walter came up and took the note from Mike then laid it out on the House table so the others could paw over it. We watched for a second.
“Sounded pretty serious,” Eric said, popping up beside me.
“It sounded like an unreasonable demand,” Mike said, wrapping his arm over Emily as she came up and hugged him. “I think it’s a distraction from the truth. He wants something else.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“Think about it.” Mike moved away from Em so he could pace. Walter and the others looked up with interest. “He knows his opponent. He knows you won’t accept those terms. You might sacrifice yourself, but never your people.”
I smiled; it was nice that Mike, for all his opinions on me, actually knew that one truth.
“I agree,” Falcon said. “He’s up to something. He wants us focusing on an attack—it’s a trick of the hand.”
“I concur,” Walter said, turning back to us, with the letter in hand. “Question is, what doesn't he want us focusing on?”
“Good question,” Blade said, rubbing his jaw.
“Well, clearly he knows you’ve been crowned now, and clearly knows you're alive,” Quaid said. “Maybe he knows we plan to attack him. Maybe he’s, by giving us a month, buying himself more time.”
I nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”
“No. That’s too simple.” Mike waved his index finger like a drumstick. “He wouldn't send a demand to buy time. He’d ask for a truce—knowing Ara would accept—then he’d just attack.”
“Well, he’s waiting for a reply in a fortnight, right?” Quaid said. “I say we continue with our plan to attack next week—take him by surprise.”
“No. We have to cancel the attack,” Mike said.
“Why?” I said.
“Because he’s probably aware of our plans,” Falcon said. “He would know about the crowning process, the powers it will give you. I bet he’s expecting us to attack.”
“I agree,” Mike said.
“So…we don't attack?” I asked.
Everyone looked at everyone else.
“We could wait,” Morgaine suggested. “We could send out spies to investigate Elysium and see what he’s got going out there—see what we’re up against.”
“Maybe we can let him attack us here, and we’ll just wipe him out,” Blade suggested.
“That would be fighting fire with a garden hose, Blade,” Mike said. “There will be no attack here; we have families living on this land.”
“Right, and the queen,” Falcon added.
Mike looked at him. “That goes without saying.”
“So, what, we’ll send knights in to investigate?” I asked.
“That would also be a bad idea,” Arthur said from the base of the stairs.
“This is not your concern, vampire.” Mike spun around to face him. “It is House and Private Council business.”
“Then speak in private quarters,” Arthur said and stepped away.
“Wait, Arthur?” I ran down the steps and grabbed his sleeve. “Why? Why would it be a bad idea?”
He looked at Mike, then back at me again. "Because, my queen, he may be all too aware of immunity, for examp—”
“What!” Morgaine gasped. “How do you know about that?”
“Immunity?” Walter walked closer. “What immunity?”
Arthur took my hands, ignoring the rest, who went on with a conversation behind us. “My dear, he may be looking to get his hands on a Pure Created. A mere Created Lilithian would not protect his army against your swords. He is a master of strategy. Everything he does has been planned out to make you think you have looked past the first two options and are clever enough to guess his real motive.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “So, we won't send Pure Created knights in there.”
He looked over at the bunch of old and new immortals arguing and waving their hands around as the House learned about immunity for the first time. “I am sorry I had to bring that up, but it is no longer a card you hold.”
I nodded. “How did you know?”
He smiled. “You let something slip.”
“I did?”
“Yes.” His eyes darkened. “I only wish you had known of this before my sons died.”
I touched his shoulder, feeling Mike’s vehement glare on the side of my face. “I'm sorry, Arthur.”
He bowed and turned away. I watched his back until he disappeared into the crowds outside in the afternoon sun.
“You told him about immunity?” Mike grabbed my arm.
“I…he said I let something slip.”
“Ara, this is exactly what I was afraid of.” He shoved me away softly and rubbed his brow. “Now Drake probably knows.”
“Probably. But I don't think Arthur would have told him, or he wouldn't have just admitted that he knew about it.”
“Or would he? To make us think he wouldn’t have told Drake, since he'd be the first we'd suspect anyway.”
I sighed, exasperated. “Look, Mike, I'm tired. I just wanna go have a shower and get some rest before the ball tonight. Can we please discuss all this in the meeting tomorrow?”
He backed down, smiling softly at me—the old, loving Mike. “I haven’t even had a chance to tell you how proud I am of you.”
“Thanks, Mike,” I said in a squeezed breath as he hugged me tight. “And, by the way, you look sooo hot in that.”
He grinned, leaning back a little to look down at me. “I know.”
“Does the tattoo hurt?” I touched his upper arm.
“Nope. Yours?”
I shook my head, and as soon as I felt the air between us from the distance of his body, Emily came flying in, practically squealing with excitement. “Ara. You look so pretty, and I was crying so hard when you finally came out of that forest. I literally paced the floors all night, worrying about you.”
I patted her back, breathing deep the smell of her apple shampoo. “I'm okay.”
“So, is it haunted?” she asked, stepping back.
“The forest?”
“Yeah.”
“Um…” I looked back into the memory for a second. “I think it probably is.”
“Oh, my God.” She cupped her hands under her chin. “You poor thing. Were you scared?”
Mike took this opportunity of girl talk to slink back to the manly political discussion going on at the top of the stairs. I looked back at Emily. “I was okay. Um, Em, I’ll talk later, okay. I really need some sleep before tonight.” And probably a good cry.
“Okay. We’ll talk at the ball then.” She touched my arm softly then walked away.
Flowing hot water soothed my skin only minutes ago, but the silence of my own thoughts—where I spent most of last night—was all too much for me to bear as I laid on my bed in the coloured light streaming through the dome. Though I was clean and fed, and the dry, pulsing sting of blood-thirst had eased, I felt empty and cold.
After the Walk of Terror, I should be grateful for simple comforts, but I couldn't stop thinking about the things I faced in that forest long enough to even enjoy the absence of gravity again. So, I got up and went down to the beach.
My heels sunk deep into the white sand, making it squeak each time I turned to pace back the other way. I didn't want to cry; I wanted to be strong—to move on from all the horrors of last night and just be a resilient, powerful queen. But seeing Jason in that forest made him feel so real, and the place I used to go inside my head to hate him was gone. That walk had changed things in me, that was for sure, but I wasn't sure if what had changed was for the better. All the grief I never wanted to feel for losing Jason came to the surface, down here, by the giant cliffs, safe from judging eyes. And it scared me, because I’d never grieved so deeply for anything. Never.
I leaned my back against the ancient rock wall and covered my face, finally letting myself cry—let the tears fall down, uninvited, unwanted, worthless, because they were shed for a pain that would never heal. And I just couldn't make it stop. Too much was hurting inside. I’d been dragged through too much and it was all finally coming down on top of me.
You should be ashamed, the other version of me said, appearing beside me.
“Go away.” I hid my face in my hands. “You’re not real. Go away.”
She just laughed. You pathetic waste of life. How dare you? How dare you cry for him? How could you let yourself fall in love with a ghost—one who mutilated and tortured you—burned his own brother alive?